


Matter of Trust, A

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:33:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Matter of Trust, A

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

A Matter of Trust By Kassandra

Slashx: July 2, 1998  
Archive/X: July 12, 1998

* * *

A Matter of Trust  
By Kassandra 

Pendrell was never sure afterward what had awakened him. Lifting his head, he listened. Cautiously pushed back the featherbed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

There was a gun in the drawer of the night table, beside the bed. He carefully slid the drawer opening, hearing faint sounds that might be nothing more than the sounds of the woods around the dacha, or which might be something more sinister.

His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the curtains in the other room were open, allowing the moonlight to spill across the comfortably worn furniture, casting inky shadows in the corner, but illuminating the their living quarters very well. Against that spill of silver light, a human shadow stood black, wavering slightly, somehow misshapen.

"Stop right there," Pendrell hissed in Russian.

There was a faint sound, the sound of a swimmer who has gone as far as he can, yet must still go further. "Brian?" 

It was a moan. He flicked on the light, set the gun aside and hurried to catch Alexander Krycek before Krycek fell to his knees. "Jesus, Alex, what--" To his horror, he saw the reason for the shadow's shape. The arm of Krycek's coat was pinned up clumsily--truncated just above the elbow.

The dark wool was wet to the touch. Panic slid like a needle into his heart, chilling him, but he moved automatically, half-supporting, half-dragging Krycek into the bedroom. 

When he got the coat off, Krycek moaned again, leaned against him, his forehead on Pendrell's belly, frighteningly limp. He cried out when Pendrell peeled the pinned sleeve away.

Dirty bandages. Oh, Christ, infection, what the hell had happened? Alex had been gone for weeks this time; he'd begun to fear for him, but would never have imagined this. Somehow, imagining Alex's death was easier than imagining him maimed. "Who did this to you?"

Faint sound against him. "Peasants." Krycek took in a ragged breath, cried out when Pendrell touched the bandages.

He had little choice. But he let it go for the moment, concentrated on getting Krycek out of filthy clothes. A basin of hot water, a wet cloth, and he bathed Krycek the best he could, emptying and refilling the basin several times before Krycek was clean

Krycek seemed to retreat to unconsciousness during most of this, and he was reluctant to drag him back to pain. Christ, what was he going to do? He wasn't a doctor, he was a forensic specialist, Krycek needed a doctor, and a good one. 

Levering Krycek's greater weight fully on to the bed, he refilled the basin with hot water. Searched the dacha and found nothing stronger or more aseptic than hydrogen peroxide, which would have to do for a start. He had to soak the bandages before they would come off, and the burnt raw flesh beneath made his gorge rise.

"Don't." Faintly, almost a whimper. "Oh, don't, that hurts."

"I know," he soothed, "I'm sorry, I'll do it quickly, Alex, I will." Cupped one hand against Alex's cheek briefly before going back to work. 

It took what seemed an eternity, but he got the filthy bandages off, cleaned what he dared of the suppurating burn and rewrapped it.

"Alex," he said, and patted Krycek's cheek until he got a whimpered response. "Alex, I need to know who to call, you need a doctor."

"No." Krycek swallowed hard, struggled to focus on him. "I can't. I can't show weakness to them."

He patted Krycek's cheek more sharply. "How do I reach Peskow, Alex?"

"Nnoo." Krycek tossed his head, tried to shift, but his sense of balance relied on an arm that was no longer there, he moaned.

"Shhh, don't, you're going to hurt yourself." Pendrell gentled his voice slightly. "C'mon, Alex, how do I reach Peskow?"

"Not Peskow." Krycek swallowed drily, Pendrell heard a click and cursed himself for not thinking of fluids, of fever from the injury, from infection.

"Um. Brelov. You can call Brelov." Green-gold eyes found his, managed to focus again. "The number--it's in my desk, Brian."

"You lie still, I'm going to get you something to drink, Alex." Pendrell touched the stubbled cheek, grimaced at the fever heat. He was a fool. But not an irredeemable fool.

Krycek drank greedily when he returned, pausing often to breathe deeply, raggedly. And to cough. "Hurts." 

"I know," he said grimly and touched Krycek's hair, spiky with dirt and sweat. Nothing he could do about it at the moment. Perhaps later. "I know, Alex, I'm sorry."

Krycek's head lolled against his shoulder. "They cut off my arm." Faint stunned voice.

He pressed his mouth to Krycek's temple. "I know." Fiercely. "Is that enough? I need to get you a doctor."

"Car's in St. Petersburg." Krycek's head lolled again. "Sorry, Brian."

"Shh." He gently lowered Krycek back to the bed, covered him with one of the thinner quilts. Krycek's desk was locked; he rifled Krycek's clothing ruthlessly and found Krycek's keys, tried each that looked possible until he found the one that fit.

Files in the bottom drawer. Brelov's. He pulled it out, studying the contents of the ordinary file folder, memorizing the facts that gave Krycek power over this man, and then leaned in to dial the telephone.

Brelov was a hatchet-faced man, thinning hair that he combed carefully to hid the growing expanse of his forehead.

Pendrell met him grimly at the door, the gun hidden in his coat pocket.

Brelov's expression was contemptuous. "Ah, Krycek's American toy."

Pendrell's eyes narrowed. "You might say that," he told Brelov in flawless Russian. "And you? Alex's Russian pawn?"

Brelov glanced over his shoulder at the doctor and nurse he'd brought, turned back to glare at Pendrell, his face flushed with anger. "Dr. Petrilov will examine him."

Pendrell nodded. Showed the doctor the way to the bedroom and watched carefully. Russian Army doctor, he didn't doubt, but the man knew his business, even he could see that. Heard the shocked exclamation under the man's breath, the nurse's hiss as the damaged flesh was unwrapped and revealed.

It looked somehow worse in the daylight, or perhaps it actually was. Krycek's fever had not surrendered to anything, not sponge bath or aspirin or the water and juice he forced down Krycek at varying intervals.

"Infection," the doctor muttered angrily and turned to Pendrell. "Who did this?"

"Peasants, he said."

"It looks like they used a scythe." 

The doctor's tone reassured him where Brelov had not. He nodded shortly. "I'll be back. Is there anything you need?"

The nurse was already unrolling a sheet across the dresser top, laying out instruments in her gloved hands.

"Nyet." The doctor sighed. "A place to wash my hands."

Pendrell showed him. Returned to find Brelov trying the drawers in Krycek's desk. "They're locked," he told Brelov, thinly amused.

Starting, Brelov scowled at him, going that unattractive shade of red again.

"Of course they are," he blustered, "I wanted to be sure you had no access to classified material."

"Would you like some tea?" A bare effort at courtesy, his mind was still back in the bedroom. 

"Yes, please." Brelov moved back to the window at the front of the room, stood looking out at autumn in all its colors. 

Brewing the tea, Pendrell acidly considered the compounds in his small lab out in the back of the dacha. Considered the color Brelov would turn if any were added to his tea. But, no, Krycek needed this man for some reason. 

Brelov had gone through several cups of tea and four sandwiches before the nurse emerged to beckon diffidently to Pendrell.

He was up like a shot, on her heels back into the bedroom.

He stopped suddenly. Krycek was nearly as pallid as the linen underneath him, but the stump had been wrapped. The doctor looked tired. There were bloody sheets on the floor in a pile, bloody gloves in the wastebasket near the bathroom door.

There was an IV stand next to the bed, a line running to Krycek's forearm.

And Krycek slept....or was unconscious, the long lashes shadowing his cheeks.

"He will sleep for some time." The doctor was wearily gruff. "You must not give him anything until eight o clock this evening. Then, he may have liquids only. The anesthesia can cause nausea."

Pendrell nodded. "And after that?"

"After twelve hours, give him anything for which he has an appetite. I'll be back tomorrow to check on it. They butchered his arm, but I was able to, ah, cover the bone with enough tissue that it should heal cleanly. The burns will also cause pain, but I will bring you pills tomorrow. The injections we have given him will take care of it."

"What have you given him?" A little warily.

Faint smile. "Morphine."

Pendrell swallowed hard, nodded. "Show me what to do."

"Can you handle a syringe? Every four to six hours, he will need to have more injected into this port on the tube." The doctor tapped the plastic tubing lightly. "The nurse will show you."

"Good." Pendrell set his jaw. "What else?"

"Nothing, until tomorrow. I will change the dressing. The bag contains antibiotics, to prevent infection."

Nodding, Pendrell went to the bed, listened intently as the nurse instructed him, too aware of Brelov's presence in the other room.

He walked them all back out, glad to see the back of them, but grateful for the doctor's help. Bolted the doors and checked the windows before going back into the bedroom.

Krycek slept on, drugged insensate, which might be a blessing. He couldn't begin to imagine the pain, the raw bone and muscle, the burnt flesh.....his throat tightened treacherously and he sat down very carefully on the edge of the bed. "I'm here, Alex," he told the unconscious man, "I'm here, and I'm not leaving."

Pain. He'd forgotten what the absence of it felt like, but this current state of non-being was blessedly close. Whatever grace had been granted, pain no longer tore and shredded him, it only nibbled at the edges of the greyness. Light burned at the edges of his eyelids, but he wanted the greyness.

"Alex, it's me." Familiar voice.

He peered through his eyelashes, saw Pendrell's face, uncharacteristically sober, uncharacteristically hard. Relief made him shiver. "Brian." It wasn't a dream, then, he was in his safe place, in his own home, in his own bed.

Clean and warm and dry, all nightmare images safely relegated to the back recesses of his mind, along with the others that had long since gone away. 

"I'm here." Soft voice, and an arm slid under him, held him up to drink icy water through a straw. He swallowed, drank until he was breathless, gasped for air and drank again.

"Easy, easy, you're going to make yourself sick." Pendrell's voice was still soft. Pendrell's hands were gentle, settling him back against the pillows. 

"Tastes good," he told Pendrell blurrily and coughed, the tickle in his throat awakening to torment him. The cough didn't want to subside, but another drink quieted it. "S'good," he repeated, trying to focus. "Brian?"

"I'm here." Steady voice.

His left arm ached, he couldn't remember why. Something cool touched his face; he turned his face into it, brushed his mouth over Pendrell's palm. "You're too good to me." If only his eyes would focus.

"Not good enough," Pendrell disagreed softly. "Shhh, go back to sleep, Alex, it's the best thing for you right now."

"Timizzit?"

"Nearly midnight." The cloth felt wonderful on his forehead. "You need to rest, Alex, you're sick."

Which explained why he felt so bad. He let his eyelids drift shut. "Sorry." Penitently.

"Shhh." Cool hand on his face, stroking his cheek. "Sleep, Alex."

He obeyed, marveling internally that he trusted anyone enough to sleep in their presence. But Pendrell....Pendrell was his, in a way, his to a degree that no one had ever been his before. Not that he really believed he owned Pendrell. Not that Pendrell believed it, either. Except on a primal level, and that was good enough for him. 

He just wished his arm would stop aching.

To Pendrell's great relief, Krycek slept decently for most of the night, waking only a few times. He managed to coax both water and juice into his patient, and Krycek's temperature dropped slightly, but the fever and the morphine combined to keep Krycek well scrambled until late in the morning.

He woke again when Pendrell brought the doctor in, peering owlishly up at the unfamiliar face. 

"Brian?" Rustily, with just the hint of apprehension.

"I'm here, it's Doctor Petrilov, Alex." Pendrell edged past the doctor, put a hand on Krycek's forehead. "He's here to look at your arm."

Krycek's eyelids fluttered. He licked his lips. "Good." Whispered. "It hurts. Why does it hurt?"

"Infection," the doctor told him and bent over the bed.

Unflinching, Pendrell watched as the dressings were unwrapped, handed the doctor scissors to snip the bits that didn't wish to come free.

"How did it get--oh, shit." Krycek went ashen, tried to push himself up and away from the doctor. "They cut off my arm!"

Pendrell caught him, pressed his shoulders down. "I know, Alex, please, lie still, Dr. Petrilov is trying to help you." Softly, soothingly.

"They cut off my arm!" Green eyes, impossibly wide. "Ogodogodogod, they cut off my arm!"

Petrilov was already moving to the dresser, snatching up a syringe and popping the cap off. Quick swipe and stab at Krycek's good arm and Pendrell leaned close, almost nose to nose. "Alex, please, love, you've got to lie still, you're sick, we're trying to help you."

The drug hit more quickly than he'd have hoped or expected. Krycek subsided, a tear streaking down the side of his nose. "My arm." A moan of despair that tore at Pendrell, made him blink hard.

"Hush, Alex, you're alive, that's all that matters." Hoping Krycek would hear him, would listen.

Another moan and Krycek turned his face into Pendrell's hand, weeping, even as the drug tugged him under. "My arm!" A child's cry against loss. "Oh, God, they took my arm."

He cupped Krycek's cheek, nodded fiercely at Petrilov to continue.

Petrilov gave him a nod in return, bent back over Krycek's arm. Snipping at bloodied and stained gauze.

"Hush," he murmured and bent to press his cheek against Krycek's. "It's going to be all right, Alex. You'll see. You're alive, that's all that matters."

He woke slowly, aware that his mouth was dry and tasted abominable. His left arm (they cut it off, they cut it off, chanted a small inner voice) ached horribly. Eyes still closed, he reached across his chest, touching the gauze dressing that extended halfway to his shoulder. Moaned. No nightmare, but reality.

"Alex?" Pendrell's voice, he turned his head, peered through eyelashes sticky with sleep. Saw the somber face soften to an almost smile and Pendrell leaned forward, helped him to lean up and drink again. Juice this time.

And it was tart and sweet and wonderfully cold.

"There," Pendrell's voice was soft, "There that's better."

He wished it were. "My arm," he croaked. "What did Petrilov say?"

"He said that the infection is clearing up." Pendrell shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. "He's still worried about the burns, but he says you're responding well to the antibiotic."

Krycek swallowed, followed the IV tube up to the bag that hung at the side of the bed. "In there?"

"Yeah." Pendrell nodded.

"What are they giving me for pain?" Whatever it was, he felt thickheaded; his brain didn't seem to want to work.

"Morphine. Tomorrow, we cut back to something a little less nuclear." Pendrell's mouth curved slightly.

He looked around the room. Despite the morphine, he felt jittery. Achy. "We need to get you out of Russia, Brian."

"What?" Pendrell's eyebrows rose. "Why?"

"I can't....Brelov is going to hold this over me, I've lost some maneuvering room with him." Hard to talk. His throat was tight. \

"Fuck Brelov." Pendrell's face was hard. "I'll deal with Brelov. You have to focus on getting well, Alex. And damned if I'm going to leave you while you're sick. If you want to throw me out, fine, but not until you're on your feet again."

His vision blurred, it was hard to see, to breathe. To speak. "They didn't cut off my leg, Brian."

"No, that's true." Pendrell's jaw was tight. "They didn't cut off your head either, Alex, what the hell are you thinking?"

He shook his head. "Brian, it isn't safe...."

"I realize that I'm a labgeek, Alex," firmly, "But I did go through Quantico, even if I only had to take the short course. And I know how to handle a gun. I know how to handle assholes like Brelov; we see them all the time in the Bureau. Brelov actually has smaller balls than most of them I've seen."

He blinked, almost found the strength to laughter. Was this his obedient Brian? "Brian," he began, but two fingers were laid over his mouth. He stopped. Blinked hard.

"Don't give me any shit, Alex. I'm not leaving, so get over it." Firmly. 

He couldn't help it, something inside began to disintegrate. "They cut off my arm," he told Pendrell faintly. Shaking. Near tears again. 

"I know." Unhesitating. Looking him straight in the eye. "I know, Alex, but you're alive. Your arm isn't you."

And that undid him. He wept, staring up at the ceiling, shaking like a leaf. And felt Pendrell's hand take his own, hanging on to him. Pulling him back from an abyss. From loneliness. 

>From terror.

Until he slept again, almost against his will.

"I had hoped to prevent pneumonia," Petrilov was drinking a glass of tea. "But I fear that his lungs do not sound good."

Pendrell, who had spent the night listening to Krycek cough, nodded grimly. "I thought that might be it. Bacterial?"

"We shall hope. Bacterial is better than viral, at this point." Petrilov sighed. "I have changed the antibiotic. It is the strongest I have available. We must hope that it is enough."

If not, there might be some way for him to obtain something. He was an American citizen. He still had a passport. "If it isn't," he began delicately, and Petrilov shot him a sharp look, nodded abruptly. He sipped his own tea, glanced across the room through the open door. Krycek slept, propped on pillows, the stump cushioned with towels and another pillow.

"Well, I will leave you to it." Petrilov put his cup down. Pendrell's eyes followed it, saw a small square of paper under the glass. Pretended not to.

Instead, he walked Petrilov to the door, shivered despite his woolen sweater at the chilly edge of the wind.

Petrilov buttoned his overcoat. "Winter is coming."

"Yes." He waited.

"It is good to have a place to winter in." A quick glance and Petrilov stepped off the porch, moved toward his car.

It had been a curiously enigmatic statement from an ordinarily straightforward man, he thought, closing the door. 

The fire in the bedroom needed stirring up; he attended to this, found Krycek was watching him, heavy-lidded eyes, puffy with unrefreshing sleep.

"Hi." Hoarsely.

He smiled a little, rose from the fireplace and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "Hi yourself. Dr. Petrilov says your arm is healing pretty well now. The burns are doing a lot better."

Krycek glanced sidelong at his arm, then away. "Yeah, that's good." Flatly. Coughed, trying to suppress it. "I'm not doing too hot other than that, am I." Still flat, but hoarse again. 

"You're sick, Alex." He didn't flinch from that direct look. "It's going to take some time for you to get better."

Krycek looked away, jaw tensing. "I know that."

"Petrilov says you can get up, have a bath, if we're careful to keep your arm dry." He changed the subject. "I think you'd feel a lot better."

"Leave me alone, Brian."

"I don't think so. You're starting to get a little ripe, Alex." Humorous tone as he rose and walked to the bathroom. "I'll feel better, too."

Got a scowl for his pains and grinned as he went in to start the hot water.

The paper on the table said simply "beware Brelov". Nothing he wasn't already aware of, but it was kind of the doctor to take the risk. He burned the paper, tossed it on the fire while waiting for the bath to fill.

Krycek had scowled at him when he'd emerged from the bathroom, but had managed to push himself upright one-armed, was clearly gathering his strength for the walk.

He smiled at that, got out bathsheets and poured in bath gel and came back to find Krycek teetering on legs that had gotten woefully thin over the last week, holding on to the bedpost with his good arm and grimly trying to get his balance. He let that pass, but put his shoulder under the good arm anyway, guided Krycek into the bathroom, got him into the tub slowly, carefully. Easing him down a little at a time.

"Oh." Krycek sounded dazed. "That feels good."

He wasn't surprised. Carefully cushioned the stump with a folded bathsheet on the bath's edge and knelt beside the tub. Picked up a bathsponge and poured gel onto it. "Good." He smiled at Krycek, who made an abortive grab after the sponge and failed. "Hey, leave it alone."

"I can do it myself." Sharply. Or it would have been sharp if Krycek had not coughed, the tickle in his throat setting off a spasm of coughing. 

He watched, worried, until the spasm died down again, until Krycek gave up and sank back against the second bathsheet he'd placed for Krycek's head. "God." A little breathless.

"Just behave yourself," he murmured and began to wash Krycek. Too thin. Not gaunt, yet, but if things didn't turn around.....he refused to think about that possibility. Washed and rinsed long legs, the torso, still muscled despite the loss of weight. Washed thoroughly, then gently massaged shampoo into the short brown hair, used the hand held spray to rinse it.

"God, that's good." Grudgingly. 

He smiled, reached for the shaving gel and began to lather Krycek's face. 

Krycek caught his wrist. "I can do it." Anger and hurt in those green eyes.

"Please," he murmured, meeting that gaze directly, "Let me do it. For you."

Krycek's fingers loosened. Let go of him. A hard swallow and Krycek nodded. Lifted his chin trustingly.

It made his throat go tight. But he kept iron control over his expression, lathered and shaved Krycek quickly, delicately. Carefully. Before pulling the plug on the bath. 

Naturally, Krycek tried to get up unaided, nearly slipped; he caught an armful of wet, slippery Alex and steadied him. "Careful, dammit, Alex-" Caught his breath, thinking of anything but reinjuring the stump, just now beginning to heal properly.

"Sorry." Muttered and grim.

"The hot water," Pendrell muttered back, shook his head and got Krycek back out the bed, glad he'd stirred up the fire. Bathsheet wrapped around him and Krycek shivered a little, tried to offer him a smile. 

"You're right, I do feel better."

He managed a smile in return. "Hey, my mother always swore by it." He towel dried skin that still showed the faded gold of summer sun. The golden hair on Krycek's chest and belly, the darker hair below. Rubbing him down, warming him back up again before easing him back into the bed. Carefully. Pulled the sheets and quilts back over him, bent and brushed his mouth over Krycek's cheekbone. "Hungry?"

"No." Restless movement, despite his careful placement of the pillows. "Thirsty." 

He touched Krycek's face. Frowned. Damn, he should have thought, the water had been very hot, and Krycek's skin held that heat still. Fever heat. He pulled back one of the quilts, kissed Krycek's mouth lightly and went out. Iced juice, more aspirin.

By the time he'd returned, Krycek seemed to be dozing, eyes nearly closed, he woke him, steadied the glass as Krycek drank thirstily. 

"I don't want that," he groused, when presented with the aspirin, but good sense won over bad mood and he swallowed them with a grimace. Sank back into the pillows and let his eyes half-close again. 

"You need to eat, Alex." Pendrell sighed. "When you wake up again, I mean it. Soup at least."

"Yeah." Faint voice. 

He sat on the edge of the bed watching as Krycek let go of consciousness, slowly, with a number of twitches and starts. For the first time, he found himself wondering what had left that trace on the man he knew. That mistrust of sleep, of one's own vulnerability. Sighing, he smoothed the remaining bedclothes over Krycek, left him to sleep and went back to his lab.

....he was eleven again, standing next to his mother and watching his father buried, the machinery creaking as the coffin was lowered into the open grave. 

No tears. He'd hated too much for tears, hated the father who was never there, while his mother might as well not have been. Hated the father who left them in the hands of his allies. The men who came to visit late at night when he was supposed to be asleep. To see his mother. To sleep in his father's bed.

He hated them, too. Let his mother hold his hand tightly, swaying slightly as she watched his father being lowered into the ground.

He wanted to spit. "I hate you," he muttered in Russian, too low for his mother to hear.

In the way of dreams, the man with the grey hair and the shiny car came then, talked to his mother in a low voice, and they were riding with him, riding in the car with the luxurious seats.

He was watching out the window, seeing the sere and lifeless trees, winter and he thought it was a good time for his father to die.

His mother's fingers were cold around his and he was suddenly standing outside the study door, the patrician face looking down on him with scarcely veiled anger.

He'd broken the greenhouse windows with his soccer ball, done it gladly.

His mother had scolded in Russian, dragged him to the door, and he met the man's anger with his own contempt.

Staring straight into eyes the color of ice.

"Thank you, Nadia," the man said, voice of iron, held the door open for Krycek to pass through.

But he knew what was coming, he tried to stop himself from going in, shrieking silently to his younger self to run, to get away, to apologize, anything but go through that door.....

He hated them, too. Let his mother hold his hand tightly, swaying slightly as she watched his father being lowered into the ground.

He wanted to spit. "I hate you," he muttered in Russian, too low for his mother to hear.

In the way of dreams, the man with the grey hair and the shiny car came then, talked to his mother in a low voice, and they were riding with him, riding in the car with the luxurious seats.

He was watching out the window, seeing the sere and lifeless trees, winter and he thought it was a good time for his father to die.

His mother's fingers were cold around his and he was suddenly standing outside the study door, the patrician face looking down on him with scarcely veiled anger.

He'd broken the greenhouse windows with his soccer ball, done it gladly.

His mother had scolded in Russian, dragged him to the door, and he met the man's anger with his own contempt.

Staring straight into eyes the color of ice.

"Thank you, Nadia," the man said, voice of iron, held the door open for Krycek to pass through.

But he knew what was coming, he tried to stop himself from going in, shrieking silently to his younger self to run, to get away, to apologize, anything but go through that door.....

Krycek's skin was dry and hot when Pendrell returned; he touched Krycek's cheek and swore under his breath, filled a basin and brought the sponge to the bed. Stripped the bedclothes down and began to sponge skin that burned under his fingertips.

Krycek muttered incoherently in Russian, pleading with someone. Terror and entreaty both.

He dipped the sponge again, squeezed it nearly dry, wiped Krycek's throat and face, murmuring soothing nonsense.

"Please, please don't, I'll be good, don't....I won't cause trouble--noooooo." A wail, still in Russian and Krycek twisted under his hands, trying to escape.

He held Krycek's face. "Alex, it's me," In Russian, and in English. "It's me, Alex, Brian, you're okay, it's just a dream." 

Tear wet face and Krycek began to shiver convulsively. "It hurts," he wailed and tried to pull away from Pendrell's hands. "Oh, don't...." Heartbroken sound.

He knelt on the bed, kissed Krycek's temple. "Alex, love, it's me, it's Brian." Murmuring. "Wake up, love, can't you?"

More shivering, uncontrollable, muscles going taut in spasm under him. He felt a moment of real terror wondered if Krycek was seizing, but it eased suddenly, Krycek blinked up at him, dazed.

Relief made him wobbly. "That's better." He wiped Krycek's chest again, wiped his legs, his belly. "God, you were hot. I shouldn't have made the bath so warm."

"What?" Confused, Krycek blinked at him.

"Nothing." He kissed Krycek's mouth lightly. "It's okay. You're okay, your fever spiked a bit."

"Oh." Drowsy again. Krycek shivered. "I'm cold."

He compromised, the sheet and one quilt. "There, is that better?"

Somnolent again, Krycek nodded fractionally. "Yeah." A whisper.

He wiped the sponge over his lover's forehead. Leaned close and kissed him again. "What were you dreaming?"

Those sleepy eyes went shuttered on him instantly. "Nothing. Just--stuff from when I was a kid." A yawn, patently false. "I'm ready for some soup."

Pendrell eyed him, thought of calling him on it. Decided against it. "Coming right up." Bent and kissed the corner of Krycek's mouth. "I'll be right back."

A more genuine smile. "Thanks, Brian." Roughly.

He cast a smile back over his shoulder before leaving the room.

But he wondered who figured in Krycek's nightmare.

Lying back against the pillows, Krycek shivered. God, he hadn't dreamt of that in years, hadn't wanted to. That bastard, that well manicured, oh, so cultured bastard.

He could still feel the cuts from the ferrule, the shock of penetration, the shame and rage and terror......

"You don't want your mother to lose her position here, do you, Alex?" The same question each time. Even when he hadn't done anything wrong. That silky cultured voice.

He'd hated him. How he'd hated him-he shivered again, willing the images away, he hated thinking about it, had always shoved it deeply into the back of his mind--who could he have told, who would have helped him then?

And the worst part was the gradual seduction of his body, the corruption of his own flesh. He'd come to hate and crave it. To fear it and long for it. 

Not the whippings. But what came after. Until he'd graduated from prep school and left that house. Until he'd found that he wasn't as powerless as he'd been as a child.

A whore before twelve. His mouth curved bitterly and he blinked hard. Stared at the fire. Still a whore, but now a maimed one, raddled and aging, and he was going to have to whore again to gain some safety for Brian Pendrell. For himself.

He could contact the bastard. Brelov could arrange it. And that would get Brian Pendrell back to his normal life. In safety. He'd have to sell his soul to Brelov, and maybe mortgage his ass to that white-haired fucker, but he could do it.

His stomach knotted under his breastbone. Christ, what had he been thinking? 

And he was not able to eat much of the soup after all.

Brelov came the next day with the doctor. As usual, Pendrell offered him tea, but it was refused, without ceremony, and Brelov followed the doctor into the bedroom, closing the door when Pendrell reached it.

Rage flared up so quickly that he felt lightheaded; he tamped it down, moved back to stare out the window until he could be sure he wasn't going to do anything stupid, anything that would jeopardize Krycek.

But the voices in the next room rose steadily, he tried to keep himself composed, went and brewed tea in the samovar. Brelov's voice was loudest. It drove him out to his little makeshift lab. He pulled out the compound he'd mixed several days before, after the doctor's warning. Considered it.

He wasn't a killer. He was, in fact, a cop of sorts. Or had been. But Krycek was playing with a stacked deck with Brelov. And didn't know it. The compound was virtually tasteless. The amount of preserves Brelov used in his tea would cover any taste.

Deciding, he pocketed the small vial. Closed the lab door quietly and was in the kitchen again when Brelov emerged, his expression triumphant. The doctor stayed behind.

"Tea, Comrade?" Pendrell pitched his tone for courtesy, hiding rage and hate beneath that veneer.

Brelov gave him a contemptuous look. "Yes, I will have some tea. And some of the sweet biscuits Krycek brings back."

Pendrell nodded. Carried a tray out and set it before Brelov and poured his tea, palming the vial and emptying it under cover of the samovar.

Handed the glass to Brelov and moved toward the bedroom. "I hope that you enjoy it, Comrade." Polite still.

Until he got into the bedroom.

Krycek lay half across the bed while Petrilov worked both to hold him down and to redo the dressings.

"Help me," the doctor barked and Pendrell was at his side in an instant.

Krycek's eyes were wide, terrified, unseeing. "No, please." In English.

"It's all right, Alex, it's okay, I'm here." 

Krycek blinked, stared at him. "You have to go," he whispered. "It's over, he's going to have you arrested, Brian, you've got to go."

Comrade Brelov was not going to be arresting anyone, Pendrell thought and touched Krycek's forehead, found it burning. "No, it's all right, I'll be fine, Alex, don't let him upset you.

Hang on, my food is food.

"You've got to get out." Krycek's hand closed around his wrist, painfully tight. "Go, Brian, while you still can."

He looked at Petrilov, who nodded, let go of Krycek and moved to the dresser, filled a syringe. "It's okay, Alex," he repeated. "I'll be fine, I'm not leaving you.

Petrilov returned, Krycek stiffened at the bite of the injection, moaned.

"It's okay," Pendrell murmured and freed his hand. Stroked the lank, sweaty hair. He needed to wash it again, but not yet. Not now.

There was a faint sound from the other room, unidentifiable. Petrilov looked over his shoulder and dismissed it, went back to dressing Krycek's stump.

He didn't look at all. Kept his voice low. "You're going to be all right, Alex, I promise. It will all be all right."

Krycek's eyes closed slowly. Petrilov glanced at him again. "Brelov threatened him." Low voice, barely audible. "He will arrest you, Comrade."

"I can't leave him."

"I will stay." Petrilov licked his lips. "But you should go."

He pretended to consider. "Isn't there anyone we can call? To hold Brelov off?" In a whisper.

"Comrade Peskow is not in Russia at the moment, although we expect him to return shortly."

"If you swear you'll stay with him, I can keep out of sight until then. " The hell he would, but it would keep Petrilov's suspicions down.

Petrilov nodded.

Another sound from the livingroom, a crash of glass and a solid thud. "What the hell?" He started, pretended to start, letting go of Krycek. 

Petrilov, who had finished the dressing, reached the door before he did. 

Brelov lay on the floor, eyes staring, face purpled, the very appearance of a man who had suffered a stroke. 

"Jesus," Pendrell said softly. 

Petrilov looked at him for a long moment. Smiled faintly. "It looks as though Comrade Brelov has had a stroke," he said.

"It does look like that," Pendrell agreed, suddenly shaky. "Jesus."

Petrilov nodded, bent to the corpse. "Go tend Comrade Krycek, I will make the necessary calls." Brief glint of admiration in the dark eyes. "It is a pity, but Comrade Brelov would not follow his physician's recommendations."

He began to relax. "All right."

Went back into the bedroom and got Krycek back into bed. Sat on the edge and stroked the stubbled cheek. "It's going to be all right, Alex," he whispered, and took Krycek's hand to keep himself from shaking.

So. He'd killed. But he'd killed someone who was a danger, a very real physical danger, to Krycek. And to himself, if he faced it straight on. And he'd acted. He'd done what Krycek would have done if it had been possible.

"I love you, Alex," he whispered and clamped his other hand over Krycek's. "It's going to be fine, you'll see."

Krycek slept on, drugged innocence and calm.

While he wept.

.....he was running, running, through that goddamned house. Could hear footsteps behind him, steady and sure, no matter how fast he ran, now matter how spent he felt.

The bastard was gaining on him. And he was shrinking, shrinking from an adult, a man capable of killing, to a boy, wearing his soccer clothes, wearing scarred leather shoes. A boy of eleven, nearly twelve.

God, up the stairs, he could hide in the attic, the man never went up there, he climbed and climbed and climbed, and still, behind him, cultured voice calling him, gaining on him, faint British accent, and oh, Christ, he was so scared, so scared.

Gaining and gaining and even though he knew it was coming, he screamed when the hand fell on his shoulders, screamed and tried to pull away.

Found himself flat on the floor, felt the other hand tug at his shorts, and screamed again. But that was wrong, he'd never screamed, he'd been too afraid to scream.

There was no escape. He'd been born into it and trained to it, and there was no fucking escape from it ever and he screamed again as he was torn open, penetrated....

Came upright in bed and screamed, gasped for air and was caught in a paroxysm of coughing that tore at his chest, doubled him over against the bedclothes.

And Pendrell was there, cool cloth, something to drink, medicine to take.

Pendrell, the only decent thing in his life, and he'd ruined that, too. Brelov was going to make sure that Pendrell paid the price for his loyalty and love.

"Go," he gasped, trying to push Pendrell away. "Go, get out of here. He's going to be back."

"No, no, Alex, he won't. He's dead, he had a stroke today. This afternoon, while you were asleep."

"Dead?" He coughed more, finally accepted the spoonful of liquid and swallowed, forcing himself to ignore the tickle in his throat.

Lay back again, trying to think. Dead. Brelov. There was no denying--"A stroke?" He turned his head, studied Pendrell's face, saw the reddened eyes. The shadows behind them.

And knew. God help him, he didn't know how, but he knew. "Brian, what did you do?"

Pendrell looked away. "Nothing, he had a stroke, Alex." Shakily.

He fumbled for Pendrell's hand, tears burning his eyes. "Brian, don't lie to me. You've never lied to me, don't lie to me now."

Pendrell's head drooped briefly. "I gave him something in his tea. Petrilov took care of it, Alex, there's no suspicion."

"Oh, Brian." He squeezed the hand he held. "God." He'd corrupted even Pendrell. Ruined him. He darkened everything he touched. He ruined everything, he was nothing but a soul sucking black hole.....

He tried to smile. "It's okay, Brian. Really."

Petrilov would help him. Petrilov was a good man, a trustworthy man. Everything he himself was not. "It's okay," he husked, swallowed a cough.

But it wasn't. He had to get Pendrell out of his life before Pendrell was completely destroyed. "Brian, it's okay, you did fine."

Right, it was fine, he could see that in Pendrell's eyes. Guilt. Self-loathing. He wasn't going to do this to Pendrell. He was going to do the right thing, no matter how painful. God, he hadn't ever meant for this to happen, he'd just wanted something of his own, someone of his own.

Someone who loved him.

Someone he loved. Someone to whom he could never admit that fact, or Pendrell would never leave. Would try to return. "It's all right." He should speak harshly. Tell Pendrell he'd made a mistake. But even he wasn't that much of a monster.

Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep. Petrilov would have to help. Because he was in no condition to do it himself.

Brian Pendrell woke, feeling nauseated beyond anything he ever remembered experiencing.

His head ached. Lifting it, he found himself sitting next to the window of--he was on an airline jet. Looking around dumbly, he tried to orient himself, failed utterly. The man who sat beside him was unfamiliar, but was regarding him with detached sympathy. 

"I suspect that you feel unwell." Russian accent.

"Where am I?" he asked stupidly. As if that weren't evident, he told himself and winced when he moved his head, sore muscles complaining badly.

"We will land shortly at National Airport outside of Washington DC," the man told him quietly. "And I have this for you."

He extended an envelope.

He took it, feeling thickheaded and slow. He'd been having tea with Dr. Petrilov, the last he remembered. The envelope wasn't sealed, just folded inward. He fumbled it opened it, pulled out the folded sheet of paper. 

Scrawl of handwriting that he recognized.

"You've become a liability to me, Brian. I'm sorry to do it this way, but you would not leave on your own. Alex"

He stared at the words, blinked hard.

He'd become a liability, he thought and swallowed hard. Looked through the window and saw the false beauty of the clouds, white and puffy and as cold as the words on the paper.

"All right." He'd been gone six months. God knew what had happened in six months. He'd have to find a job. He doubted the Bureau would take him back.

The man touched his arm again. "We, ah, have notified your FBI that we have rescued you from, ah, Comrade Arntzen. That we are returning you to your home." Awkwardly. As if the man knew some of the real story.

He nodded, keeping his face composed. "Good." Faintly. And he looked out the window.

At least, he might still have his job. If they thought Krycek had kidnapped him, he might still have something salvageable from his life.

Maybe.

He could hope. Since that was all he had left except for the bleeding wound that was his heart and soul, his self-esteem, his belief in.....in anything.

The seat belt sign flickered on. He noticed he was already belted in. Sat quietly as the plane landed, preparing himself to pretend that the rest of his life meant something.

It was Dana Scully's birthday. Brian Pendrell remembered that, if he remembered nothing else.

And he tried very hard not to remember anything else. But it was Dana Scully's birthday. And he'd once had a childish crush on her, and she'd been kind about it, which kindness he treasured in a world with sharp edges.

So, he went and got her a pair of simple earrings, simple gold buttons, nothing fancy, she didn't wear fancy, she wore tailored, unfancy suits, and simple unfancy jewelry.

Gold buttons. He put them in his pocket intending to give them to her the night of her birthday, but she and Mulder had left.

So, when she reappeared, he was delighted. It was a little embarrassing that he was just slightly drunk again, but hell, they were in a goddamned bar.

And when he tried to buy her a drink, she seemed preoccupied, but agreed.

He was carrying them over when it happened. Happy to be able to do something decent. Something kind. He didn't mind that she'd said she was with someone, why not? Bought a beer for the someone, who seemed decidedly unprepossessing, wearing camo fatigues and a worried expression.

Funny, he'd never thought of her as being the non-com type.

She's always struck him as ramrod straight, the type who'd want an officer with clean hands and fingernails and polished shoes.

No, he told himself, maneuvering through the crush, that's not fair. That's not kind. He smiled at her as he reached her, tried to hold out the beers--

And something in his chest caught fire, heat, hot, pain and he was on the floor, he could smell the beer he'd spilled and tried to think what had happened.

Red hair was all he could focus on. All he could see. And all he could feel was the fire in his chest and the growing chill elsewhere. He couldn't breathe, stared up at her, trying to smile, to be kind. 

"Hang on, you're going to be all right." Her face went in and out of focus. He was really cold, it must be the beer.

Really cold. And he couldn't get his breath, it was starting to worry him. Something pressed down on the fire, oh, Scully, she was trying to put the fire out, he thought dimly and finally got some air. 

No, not a fire. He'd been shot. The thought brought new clarity to the confusion of alcohol and pain. He'd been shot.

Oh, thank God, he'd been shot, he didn't have to do this anymore, he could smile at her again. Trying to tell her wordlessly to let go, not to worry about it. Trying to wish her a happy birthday.

And then he couldn't stand it, she was pressing hard, it hurt badly enough that the world grew grey at the edges. But he welcomed the growing darkness. He could rest. No more pain.

Of body or soul.

Alex Krycek held out the gloved hand and examined it. He looked normal enough. He felt normal enough. But he was nervous. 

He had reason to be nervous. 

He'd had reasons eight months earlier, but he'd been sick and half out of his head.

He wasn't sure what the hell he was going to say. How he was going to say it. Or whether or not he was even right to try.

Brian Pendrell had killed Brelov. 

But....Brelov had needed killing. Brelov's hands had been bloody to the shoulders in the blood of innocents. Not that he was any saint himself, but he'd damned well never--

Well, he couldn't think of any innocents he'd killed. Cardinale had killed Scully's sister. And Mulder's father had been far from innocent.

Pendrell wasn't at home. 

He leaned against the door, idly wondering if he should pick the lock or go looking. He knew a few of Pendrell's haunts. On the other hand, most of Pendrell's haunts involved other FBI agents, which was decidedly unwise.

He considered. Sighed finally and decided to go out and look, albeit from a distance and safely. He could watch for Pendrell. Surveille him, and the thought made him smile.

So it was that he was on the street when the ambulance came. 

Curiously, he got out of the car, tugged up the collar of his leather coat and made his way through curious onlookers. Ducked back behind a handful of people as he saw Skinner stride across the street and into the bar.

Saw the stretcher carried out and gasped, unheard. God, no, God, it was Pendrell, he fought the desire to go to him, to find out what the hell had happened.

Instead, turned back to the car, almost running, followed the goddamned ambulance with reckless disregard for speed laws and the danger of getting stopped.

He made the hospital without incident, though, fought the desire to go in and grab someone by the throat. Instead, used his usual stealth to filter in, to find out what the hell was going on.

And what he discovered made him frantic.

He'd sent Pendrell back to get in the middle of some Scully/Mulder fuckup and now Pendrell was paying for it.

Christ, shot in the chest, extremely critical condition and in the trauma unit right now as they worked over him.

And he couldn't let that happen.

The problem was, he hadn't the slightest fucking clue how to stop it.

At all.

The Consortium owed him, Krycek told himself, but they were unlikely to pay him what they owed.....

More likely, he'd face a bullet in the head. Or another sloppy exploding car. So, he broke into the installation, feeling rather pleased with the idea that he'd proven far more resourceful than they had ever dreamt.

Largely deserted at night, except for the guards. And since it was a low-level, almost invisible installation, it wasn't heavily guarded, under the theory that such attention would draw unwelcome attention.

Whatever the reason, it worked in Krycek's favor.

They had one of the shapeshifters held prisoner, a rebel who had conspired with other rebels. Held in a kind of Hannibal Lecter harness.

He had only one really bad moment, when the guard made the rounds. Not because of danger, but because the guard bore an almost eerie resemblance to Brian Pendrell in height and coloring. Until he'd walked under the corridor light, Krycek had been unable to shoot, unable to save his own life, paralyzed suddenly with the fear that the Pendrell he'd seen was not the real one.

But the light revealed features that weren't Pendrell's, he fired, hit the bastard in the chest.

The guard went down. He moved quickly, glad of the silencer. Rolled the dying man expertly over and went through his pockets to find....a key card. He hoped to hell that was all he'd need, aside from his kit.

Left the man where he lay, moved down the hallway and around the corner, going down the stairs to the basement. Where the cells were.

Only one occupied. He peered in through the tiny grill and smiled ferally. "I'm here to help you, but I have a price."

The man restrained in the frame was mild of expression, middle-aged. Not one of the Hunters, thank God. One of the others. "Help me, how?"

"Free you. If you agree to the price." Krycek tried to slow his breathing, slow his pulse. "There's someone dying, I want you to help them."

"We can't do that." Regretfully. "It brings attention, which brings danger."

He tried to think past that. Thought of the body upstairs. "The danger is minimal. There's a man upstairs dying the same way. One of your guards. If we leave his body in place of my....friend's, it will take some time before the substitution is noticed. If at all. What *can* you do, can you change someone's features?"

There was a silence. "It's manipulation of matter," said the man thoughtfully. "It could be done, yes."

Krycek's heart sped again, slowed. "Then will you help me?"

A longer silence. "And you'll let me go free when I've done as you ask?"

"Yes." He meant it. Prayed that the alien mind could hear the truth in his words. In his voice.

"Very well. I agree." 

He swiped the keycard through. It took a few seconds for the lights to go green, but he yanked the door open and propped it.

The kit worked well enough on the restraints. The man sighed, as if in relief, when freed. Although he seemed as untroubled now as he had been throughout their discussion.

He followed Krycek up the stairs, let himself be led back down the hallway, to the body.

"You need to get the bullet out, as if he's had surgery." Krycek knelt near the body, looked up. Suddenly fumbled in his coat pocket, brought out a tattered snapshot. "Can you make him look like this man?"

The man took the photograph, considered it. "Not exactly. The underlying bone structure is different."

Krycek watched him, hardly daring to breathe. "But you can make him look more like....my friend, right?"

A nod, the photograph was handed back to him and the shapeshifter--the alien, he reminded himself--knelt. Put his hands over the dying man's face. Closed his eyes.

There was an almost palpable sense of heat. Watching, Krycek saw the bones and flesh seem to flow, to reshape under the hands that rested on it.

Shivered, almost sickened, despite everything he'd seen.

The hands lifted, the alien looked at him. "The bullet?"

"The bullet." He drew away, nervous suddenly, aware that he couldn't shoot this thing, that shooting it would mean his own death.

And Pendrell's.

But there was no trickery, no double cross. The alien leaned back. Sighed. "That is the best I can do. Our--medical techniques are far different than yours, but I suspect this is close enough."

Krycek stared. Nodded and swallowed hard. Bent and lifted the body over his shoulder, a bit off balance, even with the prosthetic.

Led the way out the back route, the trail he'd blazed. To his vehicle. He put the body in the trunk. Came back to let the shapeshifter into the passenger side. "Listen, if you do this, I'll take you where you'd like to go."

Another mildly puzzled look. "I have already said I will help you."

"I know." Krycek flushed, closed the door and raced for the driver's side. Aware of the ticking of the clock in his head. He wasn't sure how far the abilities of the alien extended, but he was reasonably sure they couldn't raise the dead.

Back at the hospital, Krycek found two slightly soiled white jackets, both of which fit reasonably well. Scrubs would have been too much to hope for, but he managed to get them up to the ICU floor.

Darkened corridors.

He led the shapeshifter into Pendrell's room, felt his heart sink at the sight of the monitor, of the intubation.

Pendrell was pallid, his chest rising and falling in time with the machine. The shapeshifter glanced at Krycek, leaned over the bed to examine Pendrell, grimaced slightly.

"Can you--" He let his voice trail off softly, afraid to hear the answer.

But the alien had already bent, placed his hands on Pendrell's chest. "His life is almost gone," softly. "But I think he can be brought back."

His fingers tightened on the bed rails. "Please," he whispered, "Do it."

He felt that heat again, almost enough to warm his chilled hands. Waited.

And Pendrell began to struggle against the respirator. Against the tube in his throat.

The alien looked at Krycek, smiled faintly and leaned over, began to free Pendrell from the medical equipment. "You had better bring your substitute. I dare not remove the monitor leads before we are truly ready to leave."

He took in a shaky breath. Moved back out into the hallway. He'd left the body there, on a linen laden gurney, praying for no interruptions or discovery. For once, maybe God was watching out for him. It would be nice to think so. Even if he didn't deserve it, he rather thought Brian Pendrell did.

There were few things worse than undressing and redressing a dead naked body. At the moment, the only thing he could think of that was worse was watching someone you loved fight for their life. 

But when he came back in, Pendrell seemed asleep. Or unconscious. He managed the body well enough, while the shapeshifter seemed inclined to continue assisting him, helped him get Pendrell out of the bed and onto the gurney. Covered him up to his chin while Krycek maneuvered with the dead body. 

Switched the monitor leads at the last moment and then set a world speed record getting out of the room, off the ICU ward and into an elevator.

They got off at the next floor, Krycek's paranoia was working overtime. Got Pendrell into a wheelchair, stripped off the jackets and went out through the maintenance entrance into the hospital.

He was sweating, didn't realize it until he had gotten Pendrell into the backseat, belted him in and wrapped him in blankets. 

The alien gave him an enigmatic smile. "I can drive, if you wish."

He considered it. Decided it was more than fair. "Listen, if you'll take me to the Eastern Shore, you can take the car. Keep it."

A nod and the alien accepted the keys. Smiled at him. "You haven't asked for help for yourself."

He blinked, not understanding, shook his head and slid into the back with Pendrell. "I don't need help for myself."

The alien leaned in. Placed a hand on the back of his left shoulder.....he nearly swooned at the sensation. Tore at the prosthetic, in agony so acute he couldn't imagine--why had he trusted it, Christ, it wasn't just his life, it was Pendrell's......and he took that thought down into blackness with him.

Pendrell woke--and immediately frowned at the ceiling. Anonymous ceiling. Slightly dusty in the upper right corner. 

He wasn't at home. This wasn't his apartment. And there was someone in bed with him.

Turning his head, he frowned again. He was dreaming. Or something. Hadn't he been hurt? He vaguely remembered something like that. Something that hurt worse than he *ever* wanted to hurt in his life.

He pinched his upper arm hard, staring at the man beside him.

Alex Krycek, looking as angelic as always when asleep. Alex Krycek with two arms.

He was dead, that was it, and so was Alex and God had taken pity on him and given him this as heaven. It wasn't quite what they'd taught in Sunday School, but since he'd always been privately convinced that God wasn't quite as conservative as, say, Oral Roberts, that by itself wasn't that surprising.

What *did* surprise him was the fact that he was still wearing a hospital gown.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and surveyed the room. An ordinary bedroom. Double bed. Old fashioned furniture, and a slightly musty smell, as if the place hadn't been aired out recently.

He looked back at the sleeping man. Nope, Alex was still there. It was all very strange. Very puzzling. Sliding out of bed, he padded around the foot and stood in the doorway. Small kitchen, small livingroom, and he could swear he heard the sound of the ocean from somewhere.

Making his way across the room, he peered out the window. Frowned again. If this was heaven, it was all a little more corporeal than he'd expected. He *was* hearing the ocean. The sun was half in and half out, stippling blue-grey waves with the occasional hint of green. 

He considered that for a while, just taking it in. 

Green, he thought, then, like Alex's eyes. Turned back toward the bedroom and found Krycek was still there. Still in bed.

No, he was just very confused, this wasn't heaven. But.....he tugged at the neck of the gown, pulled it down to examine his chest. It was shaved, as he'd have expected, but there wasn't so much as a dimpled scar where.....where he'd been shot.

Stranger and stranger, and he was suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. 

Went back to the bed and crept back under the bedclothes, shivering a bit.

Krycek was nice and warm, but the two arms still disturbed him. What if it wasn't.....he could only dimly remember some of Scully and Mulder's old tales, but what if Krycek wasn't Krycek.

Krycek promptly disproved this by sitting bolt upright on a stifled shriek, eyes wide open.

They looked at each other in equal alarm. "Brian?"

"Alex?"

Krycek shivered, rubbed his left arm. Studied it with a very peculiar expression. "Brian," he said unsteadily, " I know this all seems very weird to you right now, but I need some help with this. I have a left arm again."

Pendrell studied him. "Yes," he said cautiously, "You do. Do you have any idea how that happened, Alex?"

"The shapeshifter." Krycek shivered, rubbed both arms. 

Pendrell considered this. Decided it wasn't any stranger a belief than his first thought of heaven. "All right." And abruptly remembered that he was....."You son of a bitch!" He leaned forward, punched Krycek in the jaw.

Krycek promptly fell out of bed.

He almost regretted it the moment his knuckled impacted, but not because it knocked Krycek out of bed; it goddamned well hurt! "You son of a bitch, you didn't have the balls to tell me face to face, you had me drugged and shipped out like a goddamned puppy you didn't want!" He leaned over the bed, wrathful and he didn't care who knew it. "You bastard! Get up so I can hit you again!"

Krycek scooted back from the bed, rubbing his jaw in bewilderment. "Now, Brian, I know what I did wasn't--I just--I needed to get you out of Russia and you weren't listening!"

He got out of bed. "Get on your feet, you...you goddamned heartless coward!"

"Brian, I did what I thought was best for you?"

"Oh, yeah. You must have thought I really *was* your goddamned slave. Or puppy. Is that what you thought, Alex?"

"No." Krycek was pale, still sitting on the floor. "That's not what I thought, Brian."

It stopped him. He frowned again. "What the hell *did* you think, Alex?"

He saw Krycek swallow. Hardened his heart against it. 

"I thought I was keeping you safe. Keeping you clean. Or as clean as I could." Krycek blinked hard. "Brian, I'm dirty, I've been dirty--Christ, since I was eleven at least. Maybe before. I don't know. You were the one thing, the one *person* in my life that wasn't dirty. And you killed Brelov. That was the kind of influence I had on you."

Taken aback, he stared at Krycek. "What?"

Krycek turned his head, rubbed at his eyes roughly with his forearm. "You know what I am, Brian. I wanted to keep you clean. Clear of it all."

Oh. God. He moved toward Krycek, who sat utterly still, not moving. Knelt in front of him, still in the silly hospital gown. "But you're here."

Tears for real, now, one sliding down the side of Krycek's nose, but Krycek tried to laugh. It was a pathetic attempt. "Yeah, well, I discovered something about myself. I don't want to live without you, Brian." Bitter twist of the mouth. "I'm not even decent enough to leave you alone, I came because....because I had to." Shakily.

"But Alex," he began, feeling more confused than ever. Hard enough to find out he was not only alive, but that it looked like he hadn't even been shot. Harder still to make sense of this. "You threw me out."

"I was afraid I'd destroy you." Roughly. Krycek looked away, looked back. "God, Brian, nobody has ever...." An audible swallow.

Pendrell felt something thaw inside him, something that had been frozen and lifeless for nearly a year. "Alex," he began. Husky voiced. "Jesus, Alex, you weren't destroying me. You taught me how to *live*, for God's sake. Not to worry about crossing every goddamn t or dotting every goddamn I."

Krycek's eyes pleaded with him. "Please, Brian, give me another chance. Please. I know--it was shitty, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly, and it is safer for you out of Russia." Diffident, scared, and shaky. 

Green eyes, haunted and frightened and, God, what could he say. "All right." Touched the dark hair that had gotten longer again. He liked it longer. Finger combed it. "All right. You've got it."

Krycek's mouth trembled slightly. "You mean it?" As if he didn't quite believe it. As if he couldn't quite believe it. Or trust it, Pendrell thought suddenly. 

God, he didn't want to see Krycek weep, he leaned down and kissed his lover's mouth. Felt Krycek's arms go around him tightly and leaned into that embrace, held Krycek just as tightly, feeling the lean body shake from suppressed weeping. "Don't, Alex, it's okay. We'll be all right." Softly.

"I'm so sorry, Brian, God, I'm so sorry." Krycek shivered. Rubbed his face against Pendrell's shoulder; he cupped the back of Krycek's head, stroked the tender nape.

Krycek lifted his head, his face wet. "Thank you, Brian."

Shakily.

He managed a grin. Leaned down and kissed Krycek. Sweetly. Tenderly, but with growing need. And Krycek kissed him back. No master or slave now, neither of them. Just the two of them. Although, in the back of his mind, he rather hoped Krycek hadn't forgotten all the fun they'd had playing those games. He'd definitely enjoyed them.

Somehow, they ended up on the floor, wrestling each other's clothes off. Nipping and tasting, omigod, the texture of a nipple against his tongue and he thought he was going to explode, the scent of Krycek's skin.....until he tugged off the t-shirt, kissed the crook of Krycek's left elbow. Felt Krycek go as still as a startled deer. He kissed the arm again, examined it. Smiled into those eyes, eyes he'd seen in his dreams. "I love you, Alex."

To his horror, it brought more tears. "Brian...I don't know how to say it, nobody's ever--" He put his fingers over Krycek's lips. Warm lips. His lover's lips. "Hush. I know." 

A deep and ragged breath. "I love you, Brian." A little haltingly. As if the words had never been used for real. 

And that was all he could stand, he tore Krycek's jeans open, freed the swollen shaft and took it into his mouth deeply. No collar. No cuffs.

Just the two of them.

Salty-sour taste and it was Krycek, god, he was going to die of joy. Krycek pushed him back, gasping, tumbled him backward and stripped him. Began a rough and hurried journey down his body, kissing and nipping and licking, attentions he had always given and seldom received to this degree. 

Krycek seemed to want to devour him whole, and when Krycek's mouth closed over him, he nearly screamed, had to hold back....think taxes, he told himself desperately and put his hands in the seal dark hair.

But Krycek's mouth gentled at once, moved from his shaft to his balls, to the inside of his thighs. A thorough and hungry exploration of his entire body that turned his bones to water and left him making breathless little sounds of arousal.

Somehow, he managed to twist himself around, captured Krycek's legs, and then Krycek's cock, and they were moving together again, seamlessly joined, the beast with two back, and God, was it wonderful, so hot and fine and this was his Alex, his pulse thudded in his ears. He didn't notice anything, his world narrowed down to the flesh in his mouth and the mouth on his flesh.....

But Krycek pulled away, groaning. Pulled him up and kissed him hard. "I want you inside of me, Brian." Whispered. Almost diffident.

He blinked. Blinked again as flame seemed to suffuse his entire body. "Alex." Breathlessly. 

Krycek's smile was vulnerable. He kissed it, nodded.

And Krycek scrambled up, vanished inside the bathroom. Came back with a smile that reminded Pendrell of Christmas.

And, God, he really was on fire then. Stroked lube into Krycek as tenderly, as carefully as he could. Krycek was tight. Almost too tight. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered and kissed Krycek's belly. 

Krycek took in a shaky breath, grinned at him crookedly. "I know that, Brian." Trust--God, trust, from Alex Krycek!--in green eyes that he'd never expected to see.

And it was all right then, it seemed to flow naturally, he eased into that tightness carefully, stroking every inch of skin that he could reach, setting Krycek on fire the way Krycek had always done for him.

Krycek was.....incredible. Beautiful. And when his mouth tightened, Pendrell slowed, stopped. Waited, his hand gently stroking Krycek's cock, bringing pleasure to ease the certain burn.

"Oh, god," Krycek breathed. "Oh, god, Brian." Faint sound, like a moan. "Oh, yes. Don't stop."

And he began to move again, slowly losing himself in the pleasure, losing himself in the sight of Krycek's face, effortful and absorbed in what he was doing. Felt that tightness grip him as he drew Krycek along with him, felt Krycek's body writhe as ecstasy approached, and nearly screamed when Krycek did, tightening down so hard it was nearly painful. So hard that he exploded himself, that he saw colors behind his half-closed eyelids. Alex, he thought distantly and let go, crying out wordlessly.

They snuggled in bed after the shower, snuggled like children. Krycek had never been unkind, but this new tenderness was....amazing.

Kisses without counting. And Krycek wouldn't let go of him. As if he didn't want to be separated.

Not that he was complaining. After the last horrible months, this was.....better than any dream. "Alex," he finally asked, realizing with a jolt that he'd forgotten about being shot. "What happened?"

"The shapeshifter healed you." Krycek yawned, nestled closer. "And me, I guess." His tone marveled at it.

Pendrell stroked his fingertips down Krycek's left arm. "I guess." And chuckled suddenly. "Why?"

"Because I let him go free." 

It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. And he was too bemused to grill Krycek on what the hell he was talking about. Shapeshifters indeed. "So, I suppose they're going to be looking for us."

"I don't think so." Krycek was thoughtful. "I think they're going to think the body I left there was you. The wound is right, the face is right. I hope you don't have some weird blood type, Brian." 

He smiled, shook his head. "Good old O positive."

"Well, let's hope the body didn't, either." Krycek sighed. "How do you feel about Canada, Brian?"

"Are you going to be there?"

"Of course." Krycek sighed. "Of course, I'll have to be gone now and then. But I'll be back. Hell, if it kills me."

He grinned, turned his head to look into Krycek's eyes. "So, are you rested enough? You have months to make up for."

Krycek laughed. "Oh, God, Brian, you won't believe the week I've had. Can I satisfy you this afternoon?"

"*Your* week?" He smiled, cat and the canary. "I got killed yesterday!"

Krycek sat up, dislodging him and shifting him down slightly. "Don't say that." A hint of panic in the tone. "Quick, say a prayer."

A child's superstition. He sat up, obediently closed his eyes and said a prayer. "There, better?"

The panic eased from Krycek's face, melted to embarrassment. "Sorry." Muttered.

"Okay, I nearly got killed. But I'm ready to go." Krycek's expression shifted from embarrassment to something that seemed to echo the joy he felt. 

"Well, okay, let's at least eat breakfast first," Krycek murmured and kissed him. "Can you wait that long?"

He smiled at Krycek. "I suppose. I've waited long enough already." And kissed Krycek again to take away the crestfallen expression. "I'm joking. I hope you plan on feeding me well."

Krycek smiled again, brilliantly, joyfully. "I sure as hell do."

"Then what are we waiting for? What have you got?"

Still joyful, Krycek told him. 


End file.
